


blue eyes (what's the matter, matter)

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Gratuitous (ab)use of the French Language, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 06:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17782547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: Richard, Executive Chef for an up-and-coming fine dining restaurant.Connor, first-time patron who gets stood up at said restaurant.Their worlds collide, hard and fast.





	blue eyes (what's the matter, matter)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aphrodisiac](https://archiveofourown.org/works/814316) by [aimmyarrowshigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh). 



> Not gonna lie, this was my solace after a very rough first day at work. I'm pleased with how this turned out, and might write an additional snippet when I get the time to. For now, please enjoy my indulgent foray into writing food-centric fic.
> 
> Special thanks to [soffgluten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soffgluten) for betaing this for me! You the best. ♡

Connor had been, for the lack of a better term, stood up.

The term usually refers to  actual romantic dates, but the text that goes “sorry! an emergency came up we’re gonna have to reschedule” only after an hour of waiting sure _did_ make him feel like he was getting stood up. He sighs, locks his phone then puts it back in his pocket. He also tries to ignore the pitying looks that the servers are starting to send him, reaching for the menu and seeing if he can eat away the shame and embarrassment. _Might as well._

 

Richard was, for the lack of a better term, done.

Were it not for the fact that he was entertaining － frankly, idiotic － queries from airheaded socialites and greedy politicians, he would be massaging his temples. He would’ve retreated into the kitchen after a few greetings and a glass of champagne if it wasn’t such a necessity for maintaining patron rapport.

 

There’s a specific reason that Richard buried himself in the bustle of kitchen work; he hated having to do this, having to deal with attention from people he didn’t know and didn’t care enough to know. But he had run out of _sous_ chefs to deal with the vapidity of people who thought they knew more than he did at his own profession, and has to deal with them himself, for once.

“Isn’t that right, darling?” a particularly nasally voice comes from a lady hanging off his arm. He only regards her with a raised brow. “That the current trend of fusions will surely taper off once they realize how much combinations could taint the pure flavors and sensibilities of any culture?”

“I’m afraid I personally don’t think that is the case,” he says as he extricates his arm from her frail grip, softened by the fact that she can’t hold her liquor. “Surely there are many restaurants and cuisine purists that are doing their job of preserving the, as you say, pure flavors and sensibilities of each one. 

“There will always be innovators who will try, regardless of what should and should not be done. That is simply how a renaissance can happen and new boundaries are found,” he takes a moment of pause, steely eyes skirting over all those listening to him. “So long as they are respectful of cultural pieces with particularly sensitive contexts, I don’t see there being any issue that could make such a trend ‘taper off’,” someone at the table chokes on their drink. Richard schools his expression so it is unreadable.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should be resuming my duties. Thank you for your time, Ms. Fontaine, and company,” he nods towards her, then to the rest of the people on the table that had been silent during his little tirade. He exits with his head held high, fixing a cuff that had come undone by wine-drunk touches that couldn’t keep to themselves.

The Fontaines have had several legal run-ins with appropriating cultural artifacts for their little museum pet project, their stock taking a hit when word landed on the news. He dearly hopes that something he said got through their heiress’ thick skull. He scoffs internally, _unlikely_.

 

After a few minutes of deliberation, Connor calls over one of the wait staff that isn’t being harassed for another bottle of wine. _Hope they’re getting paid well, those guys don’t look like much fun_. 

“Hi! What could you suggest as an appetizer for the Slow-Roasted Salmon?” he puts on his best _I used to work in retail and I’m so sorry you have to deal with those people_ voice, pointing towards the photograph of the dish in the menu.

“Well, there are a few that we can recommend,” the server flips the menu to the section with the amuse-bouche and entrées, pointing to several vegetable-based ones. Connor tries to understand the food terms getting thrown at him at lightning speeds (he’s comforted by the fact that even the waiters know what they’re doing, food-wise) but otherwise he’s just as confused as he was prior to asking. 

“I think I’ll order the artichoke, asparagus and mushroom sauté, thank you,” he points to the menu item, not trusting his elementary knowledge of French to pronounce that properly. Then he skirts on over to the desserts, and points towards the most indulgent looking one. “And the Decadent Chocolate-Hazelnut Tiers, please.”

“And for the drink, sir?”

Connor opens his mouth, not sure if he should ask again. “Thoughts?” 

The waiter, making it apparent that they noticed Connor’s bewildered expression when they tried to pair the salmon dish with the appropriate appetizer, says simply, “Something citrusy will go well with your choices, sir.”

“Alright,” Connor narrows his selection pool to four choices, and the final choice was obvious. “ _Le jus de pamplemousse_ , _s'il vous plaît_ ,” he smiles as he closes the menu to hand it back over. The waiter nods, returning the smile with one of their own before leaving to send his order to the kitchen.

 

For once, Richard stands in the middle of the room and takes stock of his surroundings, of the restaurant he had a personal hand in raising from the ground up. Then something－some _one－_ catches his eye.

If there was a significantly larger amount of alcohol in his system, he would be puzzled as to how he was in two places at once. This stranger’s face is so similar to his, from memories of fretting about his personal appearance in front of a mirror for so many years. The key difference this time is that gloom hangs around Richard’s doppelganger like a heavy cloud, unlike his own annoyance buzzing around like a pest. _Ah._

The seat in front of them is empty. Based on his wait staff’s own empathy for them, it has been like that for a while. Richard tilts his head, seeing a waiter just take their order, and moves to intercept it.

“May I?” he stands in the way of the waiter in question, already reaching out for the paper.

“Of course, sir,” they hand the slip of paper easily, though Richard could sense the tension in their shoulders.

“Jesse,” he says, folding up the piece of paper to put in his pocket. “Relax. You’re doing your job well, I just noticed that one of our guests may need something more for their stay.”

Jesse looks up to look at Richard in the eye and nods. “Thank you, sir. It looks like their companion never showed up, was waiting there for an hour.”

Richard’s mouth pulls to a slight frown. “Alright. Thank you for letting me know,” and then he sets off to work.

 

Although the role of Executive Chef often confines Richard in his office making calls, delegating tasks, and doing paperwork, there was a reason that he had been appointed into such a role in the first place. He knew the kitchen like the back of his hand - was present when the final drafts were drawn up prior to construction - and moved with the fluidity and speed of a hardened, experienced cook. _Sauté d'asperges, d'artichauts et de champignons , Saumon rôti aux agrumes, et Étages décadents aux noisettes au chocolat. Facile._

Normally, the orders would be put in line according to what has been sent to the kitchen, with the _commis_ taking and preparing ingredients from the pantry to be used by the appropriate _chef de partie_ , based on the dish. Richard does have to move over to give the dessert order to his trusted _pâtissier_ , who raises an eyebrow at the hand-delivered order. “A special guest?” 

“Something like that,” he says evasively, cool eyes askance as he sorts out the two other dishes in his head. “I trust that you’ll be efficient.”

She scoffs. “Expect nothing less than perfection.”

Shortly afterwards, Richard emerges from the pantry with a tray of ingredients: a small bunch of fresh asparagus, pale yellow artichoke hearts, yellow and red teardrop tomatoes, a shallot, some garlic cloves, and a few button mushrooms. His eyes held a steely sort of resolve, placing the tray on the kitchen island. 

Quick as lightning, work-roughened hands slammed the cloves onto the wooden surface with the side of a santoku, roughly chopping, then finely mincing and setting it aside as he peeled and sliced the shallot to thin, thin discs. The rest came together just as easily: asparagus snapping as they’re divided into three equal parts, tomatoes halved, mushrooms sliced. Some of the _commis_ milling about had gathered around to marvel at the sight, of a professional in his element.

He moves over to the stations, merging with the _saucier_ ’s own frantic pacing, placing down a stainless steel sauté pan on one of the unused burners. Blue flames flicker to medium-high, pan set with olive oil, the greenish-yellow liquid swirling around as it warms. He’s tempted to look at his watch to see how long it has taken him, but all good things come to those who wait. Richard tilts his head, staring off into space for a scant moment, _yes, good things_ will _come_. He smirks at the double entendre.

There’s a satisfying sizzle as the shallots and garlic hit the oil. Had he been cooking in his own apartment, the heat would have started perfuming the space with the pungent aromas. But alas, he was at work and he had a job to do, a mission to fulfill. The asparagus go in first to soften, just for a minute or two, before the tomatoes and mushrooms join the fray. They cook for just about three minutes, and then the delicate artichoke hearts get tossed in the pan for another minute.

As the vegetables cook down, Richard reaches up the cupboards for a metal bowl. He sets it beside the stove as his other hand turns off the burner. Moving in the space where his saucier operates (his saucier herself has worked in even tighter stations in her yesteryears), he looks over all of the sauces staying warm on the burners, until he finds the tarragon vinaigrette settling in a jar a little ways away from it. 

He moves back to his part of the station, shaking the jar as he goes. He swipes a pair of tongs from the tool rack, easing the sautéed vegetables into the metal bowl and putting a healthy glug of vinaigrette, tossing them all together with both the bowl and the tongs. Effortlessly, efficiently, not a drop spills out of place. He leaves the pan on a cold burner to cool down for a steward to take off to wash later.

Then it’s off to the plating station, where he had someone take out the slow-roasted salmon from its warming confines. Two plates, one white square and one large shallow circle dish.

With his tongs, he plates up the entrée to the memory of having to plate hundreds of it for social banquets. A bed of softened mushrooms, artichoke hearts, and tomatoes, with spears of asparagus standing and leaning on each other like a tent, he takes a spoon and streaks some of the vinaigrette on the side, then drizzling some of the leftover vinaigrette on top, oozing at the bottom. Richard nods, satisfied, before moving on to plate the main course. A server－Jesse－moves behind him to take the plate, already knowing where it was going.

He wipes off the spoon and tongs and washes his hands before taking off hearty chunks of salmon from the dish. _Looks like a favorite tonight,_ he notes, wondering if they need to put another batch in for last orders. He uses his tongs to arrange the citrus slices and fennel in a thin layer, over and under the salmon. Which, he supposes, is why this specific dish takes the least amount of time to prepare save for first batch roasting. _Less pomp and circumstance, but still beautiful_.

Richard has half a mind to serve the main course himself, bewildered at how forward he’s being in the moment. North, one of his _sous_ chefs, catches his eye. Her arms are crossed as she walks over to him, eyebrow raised.

“What have you done, or what did _they_ do, to deserve executive chef treatment?” she asks, a smirk already playing up the corner of her lips.

He pauses, debating between a fantastical account or playing it straight, on a whim. The choice was obvious. “They got stood up.”

She tilts her head, sidling up beside him as he wipes off excess fluid from the sides of the dish. “So? Tons of people get stood up in the restaurant all the time. What makes this one so special?”

Instead of letting him answer, she makes him face her, “Stop that. The dish is fine, it’s not supposed to look like a photoshopped magazine photo,” she says firmly, arm on his shoulder. Then something dawns on her, likely from looking at Richard in the eye.

“Ah, I see,” she clicks her tongue once.

“What?” he tilts his chin downward, levelling a look towards her own. “What do you see?”

Her lips purse, _are you kidding me?_ “You want to get in this guy’s pants.”

He looks off to the side, mouth open as he runs his tongue over the crown of his teeth. “Well,” he exhales, the odd elementary feeling of getting caught in the act running through him. “I can’t say you’re wrong.”

She smirks. “We went through high school _then_ culinary school together, I can read you like a book,” she lets go of his shoulder. “But for the love of god, let the servers do their job. You don’t need to fall over like a puppy dog to do this kind of shit. Be cool.”

“Be cool?” he’s the one crossing his arms this time. He remembers the time she had ordered an extravagant amount of flowers to cover her now-girlfriend’s desk at work because she wasn’t sure which bouquet to pick. He huffs, amused smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Don’t even,” she shakes her head.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says innocently, and that earns him a punch on the arm.

 

Connor is pleasantly surprised when his entrée arrives only about 10 minutes after his order went out, steam coming off it in wisps. He thought it would have taken longer, what with some of the other big tables calling everyone’s attention with their boisterous laughter and obnoxious discussions, though the quick service was definitely a plus. _I_ had _been waiting for a while before this, too,_ he thinks as he picks up his fork.

 

Richard is none too discreetly watching through the windows of the kitchen doors, skirting a look every few minutes after Jesse returns with an empty tray. He’s internally relieved that this particular patron looked visibly happier at the quick order, though externally he looks as though it was a given.

“You know,” Simon, another one of his _sous_ chefs, walks up beside him. “We _are_ closing up soon, I don’t think the kitchen will burn down if you aren’t present for last orders,” the blonde bumps a shoulder with his own, very clearly giving him an out. “If I recall correctly, you had also finished up most of the scheduling and menu planning up to next week,” he adds. Now comes the question, will he take said out?

He spots Jesse take the plate of salmon from the plating station, takes a second to “think about it”, then moving to his office. The choice was obvious.

 

When Connor’s eaten most of the citrusy salmon dish, nearly all of the shame from earlier today melted away from the magic of good food. He glances towards the empty seat again, for good measure. He sighs, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Hey!” a voice calls Connor from behind, an unfamiliar one. He raises his eyebrows, _should I even turn around…?_

“Hi,” the stranger says, somewhat breathlessly, like they had been running prior to this. “Sorry, sorry I was late,” when they turn around to seat themself on the seat opposite him, any apprehensions Connor had had scampered off, leaving his mouth dry.

This person is _gorgeous_. Broad shoulders, covered in a black turtleneck that fits _just so_. Strong jaw and intense blue eyes (he has to force himself to only glance at them or else he’d stare), and dark, styled hair with a tuft of white hair fluffing out of their forehead. He didn’t think white hair would be attractive at all, but this stranger… _really_ makes it work. Connor realizes that he should probably stop gawking at them.

“No, not at all. You didn’t miss dessert, at least,” he says cheekily. Just as he says that, the server takes away his plate to replace it with dessert. On a shallow white plate was a rectangular cut of chocolate fudge, piped with generous helpings of a light brown mousse and sprinkled with crushed almonds covered in white chocolate. A rectangular sheet of dark chocolate was settled on top, with red sugar sticks poking the mousse through the holes in the dark chocolate and some kind of herb on top, too. “Unless you wanted to order something for yourself?”

 

Richard’s eyes flicker to Traci’s creation, _Étages décadents aux noisettes au chocolat._ She certainly didn’t let him down, and could hear her judgment from his recollections of her. “I think dessert will be more than enough, especially if I’m sharing it with someone like you,” he winks.

 

Connor tries not to fluster at this attractive stranger’s attention, instead diverting his attention to the dessert set in front of them. The server, seeming to have anticipated this arrival, provided two dessert spoons. He figures there might have been something up behind the scenes that caused such a precognitive decision, but right now all he is is grateful for the convenience.

The thin chocolate layer gives way easily as he cuts into the dessert with a spoon, piling on a little bit of every component in his tiny, tiny spoon. The experience is nothing short of a decadent experience in his mouth, with the crunch of the almonds, the chew of the fudge and mousse, and the snappy flavor of the herbs in his mouth. He can’t help himself as he moans out his pleasure.

 

Richard, on the other hand, is in the throes of some sort of a crisis. He had taken Simon’s out and now he’s in front of this gorgeous man… and subsequently suffering for it. What was he _thinking?_ He knew exactly what dessert this stranger would be eating, having been the one to hand-deliver it to his _chef de partie_ , but he really should’ve known better.

Except, this _is_ better.

Most especially when he’s woken out of his thoughts by a dessert spoon being pushed into the direction of his lips. Especially when such an attractive stranger was holding said spoon up for him, all puppy eyes and adorable, that Richard can’t help but eat. As it turns out, even food that he’s tested over a hundred iterations will taste even better when being fed to him by a man with the most alluring eyes.

 

When dessert is done, Connor takes the opportunity in the lull of conversation to get to know his mysterious new date more. “So, I never got the opportunity to introduce myself,” there’s a small smile on his lips, all danger sense being tamped down because he had spoonfed a man dessert without even knowing his name. “I’m Connor.”

“Oh, I’m very sure you introduced yourself well enough,” Richard responds, tracing over the melted chocolate on the plate with his forefinger. “My name is Richard.”

Connor can’t help but be mesmerized by the curlicue patterns that Richard was tracing into the plate, “Charming name for such a charming person,” he says, absently. He’s aware that he said it, but isn’t embarrassed enough to take it back - nor does he really want to, in the first place. “Well, Richard, what brings you to my sad corner of self-pity?” That one, though, he kind of regrets saying. Connor wishes he could just stop talking sometimes.

“I daresay you were enjoying your meal before I arrived,” Richard takes a special sort of pride at that, that his brigade was _that_ good to elevate such dampened spirits with fine cuisine. “I wasn’t sure you needed the extra help, but I have been told I like to rescue damsels in distress.”

 _That_ makes Connor raise an eyebrow. Though he was no damsel, this entire situation was definitely putting him in distress, still in disbelief that such a person would come to “rescue” him in the first place.

It feels… nice. To be cared for.

“I’m certainly no damsel, let’s just leave it at that,” Connor retorts, taking his grapefruit juice for a final palette cleanse. Richard, privately, thinks that he should’ve banned straws in the restaurant when he was offered the chance. He has to school his expression, chin on his interlaced hands, so he doesn’t look like he’s staring at Connor’s pink lips closing in on the straw.

 

“Your bill, sirs,” Jesse’s arrival pops them out of their little bubble and back into reality. Richard wants to be annoyed, but it _has_ been a long night for most of his evening staff, can’t be blamed for wanting to close up as soon as possible.

He sees Connor reach out for his wallet, and has to hold out a hand to give him pause. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you,” he looks towards Jesse again. “Put it on my tab, please.”

Richard can see a subtle quirk of the lip and a huff of air from his server, clearly amused by the entire situation. Connor sputters, _I ate most of the meal why are you the one paying for it-_ “Connor, it’s fine,” Richard flashes a smile, a far cry from the subtle smiles and smirks he had been sending Connor’s way. Connor finds himself smiling back, those blue eyes could just keep taking his breath away.

 

There isn’t a particularly strong breeze in the waiting area outside the restaurant, but it’s open-aired and a welcome change to the otherwise stuffier atmosphere from the inside. Connor’s talking about why he had been at the restaurant in the first place (“An… old friend of mine was in town. Thought it would be nice to catch up, especially since they weren’t gonna be here for too long and my schedule was a bit free so, why not?”)

It’s comforting, a companionable talk between two complete strangers as a result of happenstance. “I see,” Richard nods. “What made you stay for so long?”

Connor sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Well, they aren’t the best with timekeeping in general, and the place _is_ nice. Was worth staying for a little while longer,” he sidesteps once he realizes they’re blocking the exit pathway, sitting on one of the waiting chairs. “Plus I felt bad if I was gonna stay there without ordering anything,” he adds, a bit quieter.

 _You could’ve stayed so I could eat you up_ , Richard thinks dimly, not helped by the fact that he’s noticed a streak of chocolate on Connor’s upper lip. “Well, if you hadn’t stayed for longer, we wouldn’t have met. I’m grateful for that.”

Connor breaks out into a smile, and Richard can’t help but… 

 

“Could I just…” he steps forward, into Connor’s space, holding his cheek with a warm palm. He unconsciously strokes the apples of Connor’s cheeks, before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Connor’s cheeks warm under his palms, swiping a lick of chocolate before they part.

 

“Richard?”

That brings him out of the daydream, and Connor is standing there with a concerned look on his face, that _damned_ chocolate streak still on his lip. This time it’s Richard who sighs, purses his lips before shaking his head.

“Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you for so long,” Connor says, pointedly not looking at him, instead looking askance towards the empty street. _You can keep me for as long as you like_ , lands on the tip of Richard’s tongue, feather light.

“It’s fine. The pleasure was all mine,” Richard chooses, at that point, to make a hasty retreat. Granted, he takes his sweet time by gingerly taking Connor’s hand and kissing his knuckles, pressing his calling card on the man’s palm with two fingers. When he comes back up to look at Connor, the other looks shell-shocked, mouth agape.

“By the way, you have something on your lip,” Richard thumbs his own top lip, mirroring where the streak was on Connor’s own.

Richard _really_ should have thought that reminder through, because then he sees a bit of Connor’s tongue shooting out and licking off the confectionary from his lip. _God, I wish that were me_. 

His breath stutters for a scant moment, but then he shifts back to a more closed-off expression so he doesn’t end up doing things he might regret. “Have a good night, Connor,” he nods, avoiding Connor’s gaze as he walks off.

 

It feels like ages when Connor resumes breathing, cheeks red and burning. This man… carved from marble and breathed life to sweep him off his feet, saved his failed dinner, _paid for said dinner_ , and kept looking at him with such inscrutable looks. This epitome of perfection just made his entire week. Scratch that, entire _month_.

He’s giddy as he clutches the card, black on one side with an elaborate curlicue icon on the back. Turning it around, Connor’s eyes widen.

 _Executive Chef_ , embossed and spun in gold. He had been on a _date_ … with the restaurant’s Executive Chef! Connor whirls around, in the hopes that Richard had hung around. So that he could walk up to him and give him a piece of his mind.

_With his lips. On the mouth. If Richard was open to that._

Train of thought quickly derailed, he pockets the card and walks back to his car. Bewildered, wild-eyed, and frayed at the edges.


End file.
